On behalf of the fallible, I stand before you a weary, weathered, and worn soldier, a reluctant disciple working my way up to GOD chaser status, flesh duking it out with spirit on a daily basis.  I am individual erroneous, one amongst all who have sinned and come short of the glory of GOD and even when I would do good, evil is always present.  A saint who has seemingly run out of cheeks to turn, straining to recognize the stamp of the divine on us all while keeping ultraviolent office scenarios at arm's length (the likes of which would make Tarantino wish he had cameramen on the ready).

The bile in my stomach is a putrid mixture of resentment and bitterness over present-day outcomes and anger at the fact that I have no one to blame but myself.  Sarcasm and cyncism remain close running buddies, whispering in my ear from time to time that I really ought to cut grace and mercy loose.  But it takes entirely too much energy to be this damn caustic and the few times that I did try on selflessness in the dressing room, I was surprised at how well it fit.  "Looks good on you," my loving Father said.

When your paycheck resource is a place where common sense is shown the door and convoluted is the new simple, you begin to wonder if winning is even an option for you.  But getting up in the morning and heading out the door and hopping onto a train and sitting down at a desk and logging in and picking up the phone to lose - on a daily basis - no longer carries an appeal.  And in the game of life, I am fresh out of poker faces.  

I am limping, hobbling my way towards a place of personal integrity, a place where I'm able to do the right thing even when no one's looking, even when I know I won't get the credit.  I can honestly say that's a place that I haven't been to.  Not for any long stretch of time, anyway.  But I'm long overdue to make that place my permanent residence.  One where a peace that surpasses all understanding can wash over me, one where I can feel safe within my own skin, and one where iron lawn jockeys and Trayoning intenet memes and White male salivation over coming attractions for a slave revenge narrative can't find me.  And I will no longer have to explain why any excitement of mine over Obama's inauguration was killed with Oscar Grant in that Oakland subway station, nor will I have to blurt out reactionary phrases like "post-racial society, my ass."

Or to quote Paul Mooney, "White men can't jump.  They don't have to, they own the team."

And just like that, my bitterness has me sidetracked again.  Because this isn't about fixing everyone else, it's about me undergoing GOD's pruning knife, to hack away what's not beneficial in order to keep the branches that bear fruit.  I must admit that part of me lives this life simply to make sure that my daughter doesn't make the same mistakes that I have made, to ensure that her life is an improvement on my own.  But it's ultimately not fair to her to shield her from everything.  Nor is it my place to talk about my life as if it's over at age 38, for GOD did not give me a spirit of fear.

I am weathered.  I am worn.  But I am here.  I am persecuted, but not forsaken.  Cast down, but not destroyed.  I am fallible, but learning how to yield so that GOD's perfection can work through my imperfect self.

For those who know the words of prayer, I simply ask that you pray my strength in the Lord, that I will take the suit of selflessness off the rack once again, that He will guide my feet while I run this race.  Because as much as I would like to, I can't afford to run this race in vain.